| 2004-03-05 - 8:39 a.m.
Conspiracies and riddles
Don't know what to start with...the conspiracy guy or the insurance company. I'll start with the guy...he's more interesting.... Twice a year, there's this thing called solar interference that we deal with in broadcasting. Heck, anyone using a satellite signal deals with it at some point. The sun winds up behind the satellite in orbit, and causes an electromagnetic disturbance while it's in transition. It's a predictable thing, down to the minute. It lasts about 5 minutes, which is AN ETERNITY of dead air. So. We had our solar outage yesterday during Fresh Air. I, like an idiot, forgot that was happening and called the tech department at NPR, who nicely said "probably solar outage", to which I replied. "Oh. Duh. Sorry to bother you". Five minutes later, programming is restored, god is in his heaven, etc etc. Someone takes a call from a listener who isn't happy with the explanation of the outage. Call gets transferred to me. I read verbatim from the Public Radio Sateliite Services web site. He asks if that can be corraborated with other broadcasters. "Well, if you lost your signal, wouldn't other stations lose theirs, as well?" "They would if they were on the same satellite". Then things go a little nutsy. "The reason I am asking is this.....as soon as the guest on Fresh Air began offering an opinion, which was an opinion that could be considered unpopular, the signal went away". "Sir, I assure you, that was coincidence". I gave him the PRSS web address, so he could read it for himself, and the Fresh Air web site, so he could listen to the end of the program, and we ended the conversation. And I went outside to move my black helicopter, which was double parked. Like we have time to listen to every program and kill the signal when we want. Please. We're just tickled that SOMETHING is coming out of the speakers, we wouldn't kill it on purpose. Now. The insurance company. Yikes. Talked to the surgeon's office yesterday, and she told me what the insurance company told her....basically, that I needed to call them and start the appeal process. Fine. I called them. It was like the riddle of the fucking sphyinx. "There's not enough information, like grams of tissue, things like that". "My surgeon put it in the letter". "We need more information" "Does this mean I need to waste everyone's time and get xrays and mri's?" "Not necessarily. We need more information". I felt like a moron when I hung up. I learned nothing. Oh. Wait. They need more information. It was surreal. It was like a Laura and Rob Petrie argument. "Well if you don't know, I'm certainly not going to tell you!" I called the woman at the surgeon's office back, and left a message for her. I emailed my massage therapist to ask her if she could help me out. I grabbed all my exercise records from the Y, to prove that, while I'm not in PT, I'm working out regularly. I guess the next step is to get a game plan and make an appeal. But here's the thing regarding breast reduction....no woman is going to want major surgery that LEAVES PERMANENT SCARRING just for funsies. This isn't like a face lift or a nose bob or implants. Looking better is just the fringe benefit. And no, I don't have an endless paper trail of pain killers and xrays and MRIs, because I've had the damn hooters since I was 14. Their effects are cumulative. I just haul 'em around. It's what I do. I don't go to the doctor everytime I throw my back out, because I know it's not something to be "fixed". Only time fixes it, and maybe some sessions with my wonderful and amazing massage therapist. Maybe I'm biased, but I think if one's bra cups could do double duty as a winter cap for a grown man, if despite 60 dollar miracle fabric sports bras, biking is still an exercise in discomfort and embarassment, if certain yoga poses have a risk of suffocation by one's own bosom, then the tits are too big and the owner of said tits should be able to get tem reduced to a more manageable size. And that's the name of that tune.
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